And the World Did Not End
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Change comes to the Carson household. Post-canon/S7 Chelsie.


**A/N: A new piece; a long time coming. Inspired by a photo and a comment made about it by Canadianjudy, the idea for this fic has been kicking about since June.**

 **Many thanks to brenna-louise for her encouragement! xx**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

It is June when she retires, quietly and without fanfare in keeping with the manner in which she has conducted herself throughout her tenure as housekeeper. The fortnight preceding her departure is composed of longer days as she takes meetings with Lady Grantham to address the passing of the proverbial baton, as she painstakingly puts down all the details of her position, ink on paper. Miss Baxter is ready, as ready as can be, to assume her duties, but she cannot in good conscience walk away without having dotted every "i" and crossed every "t." Baxter and Anna and Mrs. Patmore share many a giggle over this, the cook giving voice to the thought on all three of their minds: "That's 'im rubbing off on 'er!"

The decision to hang up her chatelaine has come, in large part, at the urging of her husband. He has taken a most domestic turn of late, but it never would have happened had he not turned from fault-finding to consider the needs of his wife. And _that_ would not have happened without the intervention of an old friend.

 **oOo**

He had retired at the start of the new year, his hand quite literally forced much to his consternation. At first it was simply the case that he missed her and found himself with an overspill of time on his hands. He had married her supposing that in so doing he would spend more time with her, but with him no longer working he was seeing less of her instead.

Gradually, however, his concern became less for himself and his unfulfilled expectations and more for her and the peculiarities he'd begun to observe. Each and every morning he said goodbye to Elsie, who was up with the sunrise and off to the Abbey. Day after day she would arrive home after dark, always with a smile on her face and a kiss on her lips but also with a weariness that was almost palpable. She would move about the kitchen fixing supper and throughout the house putting things in their rightful place, all the while chatting to him about his day and hers, but he was not oblivious to the dark circles under her eyes or the heaviness that appeared to have settled about her shoulders.

Now that his days found him with far less on, he'd taken to thinking; puzzling out long-held curiosities and observing both the mundane and the wondrous as he went about. He worried about her: was she poorly? He thought of the last time he'd seen her like this and fear caused gooseflesh to rise on the back of his neck. _The cancer scare. Dear God, no._ _It couldn't be that again, surely. Could it?_

He turned it over and over in his mind until it began to have a deleterious effect on his sleep. One afternoon he walked up to the Abbey near the end of her shift so that he could accompany her home. He found it somewhat curious returning to the big house and could never bring himself to go without his shoes impeccably shined and his collar perfectly starched. Lord Grantham had insisted that he knock at the front door - he was a guest now - but he would never do so when the same privilege was not afforded his wife.

And so he entered through the back door. It was relatively quiet below stairs - he supposed most of the staff would be upstairs finishing their afternoon duties before tea time and the dinner rush - but the kitchen was full of life. Mrs. Patmore was in a lather over a runny béchamel sauce, admonishing Daisy to mind the potatoes didn't boil over. He stood in the doorway silently for a moment, shaking his head. With all the changes that had come to pass, it did his heart good to see that some things remained the same.

He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Patmore."

The cook looked up from her saucepan and dropped her spoon. Wiping her hands on her apron, she embraced him heartily. "Would you look at what the cat dragged in! Mr. Carson!" She kissed his cheek and then held him out at arm's length in order that she might get a good look at him. This had become her customary way of greeting him since his retirement, and one he'd not yet grown accustomed to. "Oh, I say," she continued, "it isn't just the missus looks like death warmed over! Trouble in paradise, eh?"

He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, painfully aware of Daisy's not-so-subtle attempt to pry. Sensing his disquiet, the redhead intervened.

"Sit down while ye wait, Mr. Carson, and sample that custard for me, eh?" Retrieving a list off the counter, she handed it to Daisy. "Run these changes up to Mr. Barrow. It won't do, 'im 'avin' a stroppy fit as they're all bein' seated."

With a nervous glance in his direction, Daisy nodded. "Right away, Mrs. Patmore. Good seeing you, Mr. Carson."

When Daisy had taken her leave of them, the cook fixed him with a look that said, _Out with it._

He fidgeted in his chair, the rise and fall and knitting and furrowing of his brow speaking to both his concern for his bride and his chagrin at needing to have such a conversation with Mrs. Patmore.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed, "Can I assume by your earlier remark that it hasn't escaped your notice there's something amiss with Mrs. Hugh— with Mrs. _Carson?_ "

The cook abruptly put down the wooden spoon she was holding and set her hands on her hips. "'Something amiss,' you say? Something _amiss?!_ " She all but spat at him, and he backed up a little where he was sitting. She went on. "I'll give you 'something amiss,' Mr. Carson! _Mrs. Carson_ \- your _wife_ \- is wrung out like a mop, she is. Up before the sun every morning, cookin' your breakfast an' bakin' your bread. Then she's 'ere before six dressin' the ladies an' givin' the orders an' puttin' out fires - and sometimes that's literal! All day she runs this house - _an' she does, Mr. Carson!_ Barrow may have the reins but it's your missus drivin'! An' then she goes home - like as not after dark - an' makes your tea and fixes your supper and washes your clothes. Far be it from me to meddle …" He thought it odd that she should pause at this particular point in the midst of dressing him down, but perhaps her bravado was fading now that she'd got some of it off her chest.

He hesitated for only a moment. "Ah … no, no … Do continue," he told her, bewilderment etched upon his features.

"Well," the redhead glowered, and he had the thought that were it not for the fact she was working, her finger would be wagging in his face. "You're not a simple man, Mr. Carson. I should 'ave thought you'd learned a thing or two from livin' wi' 'er by now. She can't be expected to run this house _and_ yours on 'er own. I don't think I need to spell out the consequences for 'er if she doesn't 'ave some help."

He looked aghast at her for an instant, but he couldn't argue. "No, no," he answered. "I read you loud and clear, Mrs. Patmore. Ah … what would you suggest?"

The cook opened her mouth to speak, but something made her think better of it. On one hand, she could brain the man: he had been the butler of Downton Abbey for decades, but he couldn't get his head round the notion that his wife risked collapsing under the burden of running two households. But on the other, she figured there must be some part of him that had known that all was not bliss and simply found himself at a loss. He was, after all, aged seventy and only just married for the first time. And she'd known him long enough to realize it was as rare as snow in July for him to ask advice. So she drew a deep breath and tempered her response.

"I don't suppose you came to be butler of a house the likes of this one wi'out a basic knowledge of the job of housekeeper an' all it entails," she began. Seeing his nod, she went on. "An' surely your mother must've taught you to make a bed an' scramble eggs an' iron your trousers?"

"Indeed," he rumbled.

"Well then, there's your answer! You're at 'ome all day long while she's 'ere. Were I you, I'd make myself useful. Only way she'll ever stop fussing's if there's nothing there to fuss over. I trust you take my meaning?"

Before he had the chance to answer, the subject of their conversation appeared in the doorway. Catching sight of her, he cleared his throat, hoping the cook would take _his_ meaning.

"Ah, Mrs. Carson! I was just gettin' your 'usband's thoughts on the custard," said the redhead, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Yes, yes," he agreed, picking up his spoon. "This should do nicely, Mrs. Patmore."

Elsie looked back and forth from one to the other. Any fool could have seen through that shameful attempt to cover up their heated discussion. "Honestly, the two of you," she harrumphed. "Perhaps I was born at night, but it wasn't last night!" When neither party offered up an explanation, she rolled her eyes. "Whatever you're on about, I can't be troubled with it now. Mrs. Patmore, I'm off. Have a pleasant evening."

With a sidelong glance at the cook, who mouthed, "Remember what I said," he nodded, bid her a good evening and ushered his wife out the door.

He was quiet as they walked home together. He felt such relief in knowing that the reason behind her fatigue was not what he'd feared, but he couldn't stop thinking it was he who'd got her into such a state by expecting the impossible from her. He'd waited all his life to find the love of a good woman and now that he finally had done, this was how he expressed his gratitude?

As she walked beside him, their shoulders bumping lightly from time to time, she watched him, noting the storm clouds in his eyes and the sag in his posture. "Charles, I know the cat's not got your tongue because it certainly was wagging back at the house with Mrs. Patmore. What's she said that's got you in such a state?"

Blinking, he slowed his steps and willed his stony expression to soften. "She hasn't said anything I didn't ask to hear," he answered. "I ought to have seen it after you and she conspired to set me right about your cooking, but I've been as a blind man." He looked down at his feet as they walked on, listening to the crunch of the gravel. Whatever she might have been tempted to say, she held her tongue.

After some moments, he continued. "Elsie, love, are you … happy? Have … have I made it … worth your while … being married to me, that is?"

With a hand at his wrist she halted their steps. "Charles," she said softly, making him meet her eyes with his own, "have you any idea how many years I waited for you to ask for my hand?" Not waiting for his answer, she pressed on. "These few short months since we wed have been the happiest in all my life." Her hands held his lapels as she concluded. "I have _you_ now, my love."

He smiled wanly, still unsatisfied. "Only I've noticed you seem rather …" he paused as he searched for the right word, hoping not to offend, "... _done in_ of late and I wonder whether I haven't contributed … in some way."

She sighed in response to him, furrowing her brow. She owed him an honest answer, but the very last thing she wanted was to start a row. The truth was that she _was_ 'done in,' as he'd put it. She had thought for a moment, remembering a word of advice given by her mam long ago:

" _When one day you marry,_ a leanabh _, you'll do well to bear in mind that husbands take more kindly to hearing of their shortcomings if you pin them on yourself."_

When she'd given sufficient thought to how her mam would have put it, she told him, "I'm not as young as I once was, my dear, and I find myself at a loss sometimes to keep the sort of home you ought to have. I wish quite frequently for a twenty-fifth hour in the day." She kept it light and self-deprecating, finishing with a warm smile and a flash of blue eyes.

It worked, for he responded with a grin. "What would you do with the extra hour?" he asked.

"Oh, like as not I'd darn socks; replace buttons. I'd press your shirts and bake the next day's bread and collect the papers you've finished with. All the little things that pile up and leave me in a rush to finish."

They walked on then, enjoying quite a pleasurable discussion as she asked him what he would do with an extra hour per day, and then they moved on to speculate as to what others might do with the time, both of them breaking into gales of laughter when they determined that the Dowager Countess would use it to practice disapproving looks before the mirror. But all the while he was also replaying both her words and those of Mrs. Patmore, having decided that change was required and that it must begin with him.

Charles Carson: a man averse to change if ever there was one. But it was a necessary evil if he was going to keep the wife he'd waited all his life to find.


End file.
